


Of Comets and Counter-Examples

by Woldy



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Best Friends, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Motorbike, Reunions, Romance, Travel, Trust, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-26
Updated: 2009-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-05 07:06:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woldy/pseuds/Woldy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If the past is a foreign country, can travel help to resolve a troubled history? Dumbledore assigns Remus and Sirius a mission to explore three European cities, or perhaps to find each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Comets and Counter-Examples

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2008 Remus/Sirius Games using the prompt 'Brothers on a Hotel Bed' by Deathcab for Cutie. Many thanks to Team Post-Hogwarts, to the mods &amp; to the wonderful [**maraudersaffair**](http://maraudersaffair.livejournal.com/) for beta-ing this fic.

“Even landlocked lovers yearn for the sea like navy men   
’Cause now we say goodnight from our own separate sides   
Like brothers on a hotel bed…”_Brothers On A Hotel Bed_  
   
   
The air was cold and saturated with the salty spray from the waves crashing against the shoreline. Remus was suspended perhaps fifty metres above the cliffs on a large, noisy and thoroughly insecure flying motorbike.  
   
For the umpteenth time Remus thought, “This is a bad idea.”  
   
Unfortunately, this was Dumbledore’s idea, so Remus had quashed his misgivings. His instructions were vague: a mission with Sirius to investigate the sites of three ancient magical battles.  
   
In his usual, twinkly-eyed way, Dumbledore explained that they would be searching for unusual defensive magic or magical objects, particularly a ring or very powerful wand. Remus knew enough about wizarding folk-tales to recognise a wild goose chase when he was handed one.  
   
Still, an all-expenses-paid foreign holiday with Sirius was not to be sneezed at. Remus might have protested at Dumbledore’s thinly veiled intrusion into his personal life, except that holidays were beyond his meagre income.  
   
Besides, clearing the air with Sirius was…well, quite sensible. At some point Sirius would presumably return to England and it would be helpful to know where things stood. Advice columnists and etiquette books had nothing to say about relating to a close friend you’d believed a traitor and who had recently escaped from prison.  
   
Nonetheless, Remus would have preferred a plan that didn’t involve this damned bike.  
   
The land beneath him dwindled and then disappeared as he flew out over the dark expanse of the North Sea. Remus re-assured himself again that the bike would be _fine_. Sirius had designed the charms himself, it had even carried Hagrid once. Rationally, Remus knew he was secure.  
   
Rationally wasn’t the problem, though, which was why he’d agreed to the trip: the bike was an extension of believing he could trust Sirius.  
   
The roar of the sea faded and was replaced by the constant thrum of the motorbike’s engine. Remus took a deep, calming breath. “You’re safe,” he said, aloud. “It’s all right.”  
   
Things weren’t all right, not really. He supposed this would have to be good enough.  
   
“Point me,” he commanded his wand, and steered East, towards the Baltic, the city of Tallinn and Sirius.  
   
Tedium replaced terror over several cold hours before the bike landed on a quiet road on the outskirts of Tallinn. Remus rode past ugly Soviet tower blocks until he reached the medieval buildings of the old town where their hotel was located.  
   
Remus dismounted carefully, feeling extremely stiff, and parked the bike in a small stone courtyard. After some hammering on the hotel door, a woman appeared bearing the key to his room. He fell into bed and was asleep within seconds.  
   
Remus was woken by loud knocking, and for a second believed himself to be back at Hogwarts. Instead, he opened his eyes to find a plain hotel room and, oddly, himself wearing trousers in bed. Sleepily, he opened the door and found Sirius – really, truly Sirius – on the other side.  
   
Sirius looked very different to the last time Remus had seen him, when they were leaving the Shack. Now, Sirius’ face was tanned, clean-shaven, his hair was cut, and he looked almost relaxed. Remus thought that he’d filled out a bit, after spending time in human form eating proper, human food.  
   
As if he could read Remus’ mind, Sirius said “Breakfast?”  
   
“I’ll see you downstairs in a moment,” Remus replied, and went to get dressed.  
   
Breakfast was fine: they talked about toucans, about Sirius’ cushy exile in Morocco and a range of other relatively inconsequential things. Neither of them said “Azkaban” or “trust” or “betrayal” but the words hung unspoken in the air between them.  
   
“Right,” Sirius said, eventually. “Best take a look at those notes.”  
   
They spread Dumbledore’s notes on the breakfast table and, perhaps inevitably, the parchment got smeared with marmalade. Beneath the marmalade, Dumbledore’s looping script told them that the city had a fascinatingly dark and violent history, but regrettably no library. This news prompted a smile from Sirius, for whom books were never the preferred means of research.   
   
“Best do it by foot,” Remus concluded, looking enquiringly at Sirius to see how many feet he wanted to employ.  
   
“Bit chilly,” Sirius replied, picking up his cloak, which answered that question.  
   
“It’s not much colder than Hogwarts,” Remus thought, but that wasn’t much help – doggy Sirius used to get cold at Hogwarts and must have frozen last winter.  
   
Since grief and regret wouldn’t solve anything, Remus pushed those thoughts aside to focus on the task at hand: examining the city for unusual defensive magic.  
   
Tallinn was all grey stone and stark white snow, a city made up of castles, walls and fortresses that blurred together to create one long, formidable city wall. It reminded Remus of Hogwarts, except that Hogwarts was friendly and joyful whereas Tallinn was steeped in sorrow.  
   
Looming towers with barred windows punctuated the wall at intervals, and Sirius withdrew into himself each time they passed one. Remus could guess all too easily what Sirius was reminded of.  
   
After a few hours of exploring they found a large, clearly man-made hole in the ground in the midst of a park. A lumos spell and some cautious steps forward revealed a tunnel about six feet high that angled steeply down. The entrance seemed newly excavated, but it was apparent from inside that the tunnel was much older, its stone walls matching those of the city’s medieval buildings.  
   
Once they had descended several metres, the tunnel extended horizontally as far as Remus could see by wand light. Cautiously, Sirius and he walked along it.  
   
The air in the tunnel reeked of magic, even though the spells were mostly centuries old. Remus found wards, defensive enchantments and some structural spells to reinforce the stones and mortar – “Against battering rams,” Sirius suggested.  
   
They uncovered concealed exits and air holes that emerged several hundred metres from the tunnel’s entrance, and less pleasant surprises including the trip jinx which caught Sirius. After that, they were both more careful, dismantling spells that would have seriously inconvenienced an unwary wizard or Muggle.  
   
“Good thing Dumbledore sent us, huh?” Sirius said proudly, as he finished disarming a suffocation curse.  
   
“Mm,” said Remus, who was focused on a tricky Estonian rune that was etched onto one of the stones.  
   
 “Takes me back,” Sirius remarked, observing the damp walls in the dim wand light. “Like the passage to Honeydukes, except there’s no sweets. Just like old times.”  
   
“Not quite,” Remus answered distractedly, as he copied the final strokes of the rune onto parchment. “I’m not the same person I used to be.”  
   
Remus heard the mixture of bitterness and apology in his voice and went silent, worried that he might have opened a Pandora’s box.  
   
“Nobody is,” Sirius replied evenly. “What’s the quote – ‘the past is another country, they do things differently there’.”  
   
Remus rolled the parchment and looked up. “What?”  
   
“I do read you know,” Sirius said, neutrally. “It’s what I thought about in Azkaban. I couldn’t stew on James and Lily or I would’ve gone mad in weeks, so I lived in books. I got years out of Shakespeare; Hamlet kept me going all through 1983.”  
   
Remus stared.  
   
“I couldn’t remember you properly. Dementors leave you with a dark caricature of your memories, so I could barely recognise people. But I thought about your books. I still prefer Hemingway, but you’re right that Joyce improves upon reflection.” Sirius gave an odd, twisted smile.  
   
“I should have done something,” Remus said hoarsely. “I’m sorry. I should’ve known.”  
   
“Everyone else got it wrong.” Sirius said, with only a trace of bitterness, “I acted like an idiot in the war and Mad-Eye filled us with paranoia everyday in Auror training. Then James went into hiding and I started suspecting you and… gave up on things. You shouldn’t apologise for failing to work miracles.”  
   
“I was – am – your friend. It’s different.”  
   
Sirius gave him a long look, eyes softening. “I forgave you a long time ago,” he said quietly. “But perhaps you need to make peace with yourself.”  
   
“You never used to give good advice,” Remus commented, aiming for humour but hearing his voice waver.  
   
Sirius smiled, genuinely this time. “Would’ve ruined my bad reputation,” he said, standing and brushing the dust off his robes. “It’s getting late, we should eat something.”  
   
Sirius reached out a hand and after a moment Remus took it, thinking of the dozens, perhaps hundreds, of times Sirius did that while they lived together. Sirius tugged him upright and then quickly dropped his hand, turning to retrace their steps through the tunnel.  
   
“We’re not the same people,” Remus thought, feeling like a stuck record, “But that might be ok. We can build something new. Something different.”  
   
They continued their task over the next two days, walking the remainder of the city walls, exploring dungeons and stone turrets with careful, inquisitive spellwork. Sirius grew tired and pale, “Nightmares” he said tersely, but brushed off further enquiries.  
   
On the fourth day Sirius looked worse, his eyes dark and gloomy over the morning toast. Remus thought that the days behind walls, bars and arrowslits were stripping away Sirius’ humour and happiness piece by piece.  
   
“I think you need a day off,” Remus suggested tactfully.  
   
Sirius glanced up from the pamphlet he was reading. “In that case,” he said firmly, “we’re going to buy chocolate.”  
   
It turned out that the flyer was advertising the biggest chocolate factory in the former Soviet Union, which was barely miles away and offered a tour for visitors. The factory tour involved a lot of Muggle chemistry which was similar to Potions - “Boring…” murmured Sirius - some chocolate tasting and finally, the shop.  
   
What a shop. It was like Remus’ first trip to Honeydukes, except much bigger, much cheaper and he had more than a handful of pocket money. This was_ magical_ .  
   
“Hey Moony,” Sirius said, appearing with his arms literally heaped with bars of chocolate, tins of marzipan and various unidentifiable boxes. “Dyou reckon Dumbledore’ll notice if we put this on expenses?”  
   
Remus felt the corners of his mouth twitch. “We’ll call it medical supplies,” he suggested, and felt warmth blossom inside him when Sirius smiled. “Might help with your nightmares.”  
   
“I’ll get some more, then,” Sirius decided.  
   
They started eating the chocolate as soon as they left the factory, walking back to the motorbike across a snowy park. Remus realised, as he chewed chocolate-covered ginger, that the scene was rather beautiful: soft gleaming snow, dark trees, the light fading to pink – and was interrupted by the thump of wet snow against his shoulder.  
   
“You did not just do that,” Remus said, turning slowly.  
   
“Yep,” said Sirius, grinning around a mouthful of chocolate.  
   
“You, Mr Black, are thirty six years old.”  
   
“So?” Sirius asked, eyes crinkled with amusement. “Gonna let me get away with it?”  
   
Remus answered by throwing a perfectly crafted snowball right at Sirius’ head, which unleashed a furious melee that left them both panting and taking cover behind trees.  
   
“I propose a truce!” Sirius yelled, and Remus was glad to be here with him, even if they were both pretending to be fifteen.  
   
That night Remus woke to the sound of Sirius whimpering in the neighbouring room, and he banged on the door until Sirius unlocked it. Sirius’ hands were shaking and his face was wet; Remus held him until the tremors stopped, his breath evened and they both slept.  
   
On the final day they went to the largest tower, which was filled with layer upon layer of ancient Russian and German magic. They found a lot of unpleasant things: protective enchantments worked in blood, terrible curses and plagues, all of which were clearly the last-ditch efforts of desperate, dying men.  
   
Remus never touched his own bed that night, curling against Sirius’ back to offer a comfort they hadn’t shared since school. Sirius radiated warmth through their layers of pyjamas, but he lay still and Remus could sense him gradually falling asleep.  
   
War, Remus remembered, made cautious men reckless and turned reckless men cautious.  
   
Moody gruffly told everyone this, but none of the Order believed it until the Death Eater killings produced a tide of unwise relationships and unplanned pregnancies.  
   
After Harry’s conception was announced, James transformed into a responsible, risk-averse father. Peter gradually lost his quirky, devious sense of fun, and Remus – the supposedly sensible prefect – begun accepting the most dangerous missions without hesitation.  
   
Sirius was the exception, of course, as if he were an unruly comet who’d set out to break every rule in the universe. When the war started, Sirius became sober, careful and a touch suspicious; he joined the Aurors, of all things, despite his notorious inability to follow rules.  
   
Remus knew things had got really bad when Sirius grew reckless again, acting in ways only explicable by absolute despair or absurd overconfidence – he couldn’t tell which, because Sirius and he stopped talking months earlier.  
   
Things were different now. James was dead, Sirius was hiding and last week Harry faced down a dragon, proving himself braver than any of them.  
   
Remus wished he knew which attitude Sirius would adopt now, as if he were a barometer of the troubles. But Sirius just slept, his steady heartbeat drumming its admonitory message: keep faith, keep faith, keep faith…  
   
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
   
“You may tire of me as our December sun is setting, ‘cos I'm not who I used to be.   
No longer easy on the eyes, but these wrinkles masterfully disguise   
the youthful boy below who turned your way and saw   
something he was not looking for: both a beginning and an end,   
but now he lives inside someone he does not recognize   
when he catches his reflection on accident”_Brothers On A Hotel Bed_  
   
   
As they flew South to Venice, the sun emerged from the clouds for the first time in days. It was a long, cold flight over central Europe made colder still by the disillusionment charms. They travelled all day and into the night, both men wearing as much clothing as was consistent with the ability to move their arms.  
   
Since the journey was over six hundred miles, they stopped in Poland and shared a bed in a grotty small-town hotel. Both men slept through most of the daylight and woke in afternoon gloom, wolfing down a meal and some bitter coffee before moving onwards.  
   
The streets were icy and treacherous in the thick snow and Remus was glad when they could take flight, relying on the falling snow to hide the motorbike and its passengers from Muggles.  
   
Flakes swirled thick and white around them, blowing into Remus’ eyes or down the back of his neck, and forcing Sirius to transfigure some aviator-goggles that made him look like a frog. Ice formed between Sirius’ gloves and the handlebars, seemingly impervious to the warming charms they cast.  
   
It grew colder and colder as night fell, and Remus huddled behind Sirius as best he could, tucking his face into Sirius’ neck and inhaling the animal heat and scent through the layers of woollen scarves.  
   
Venice was warmer but windy, and looked almost like a fairytale from the air: a hazy maze of streets literally floating above the water. The hotel Dumbledore had arranged was small but well-appointed, and they declined the second room by unspoken agreement.  
   
Within minutes of arrival in Venice, they had become terribly lost.  
   
Everything in the city seemed designed to de-stabilize and dislocate: the periodic flooding by high tides, the narrow streets caught between high walled buildings and canals, the identical curved bridges and the omnipresent signs to “St Mark’s” which pointed in all directions.  
   
Fortunately, being lost brought out the best in Sirius – the Sirius of their schooldays and the Marauders map, who had shining eyes and boundless energy. He tugged Remus around corners into dark alleys and peered through slats into walled gardens.  
   
After two hours they emerged into St Mark’s Square, which wasn’t their intended destination but arriving somewhere definite seemed like progress. Remus took advantage of the opportunity to explore the Basilica with its high domes and lovely Byzantine mosaics.  
   
Sirius was quickly ejected from the cathedral for simultaneously breaking the rules against shouting and blasphemy. If it were summer, Remus suspected he might have broken the rule against partial nudity too, perhaps reducing the stuffy Italian guards to apoplexy.  
   
In the afternoon they managed to find several gelato shops, some luxuriant hazelnut chocolate and finally the magical library, which was closed on Mondays.  
   
“Do you think we’ll find it again tomorrow?” Remus wondered.  
   
“Nope,” said Sirius cheerfully and dived down another mysterious passageway, bringing them out near the Rialto Bridge.  
   
They dined on delicious dirt-cheap pizza and even cheaper cappuccinos, before walking back along the canal in the darkness. Sirius paused to admire the view: the neon lights reflected off the water, the gondolas and small boats, the seagulls.  
   
Remus sat on the edge of the canal and glanced down into the water. Sirius was still very handsome: tanned and charming and every bit as seductive as he’d been at twenty while acquainting himself with a thousand girls’ lips.  
   
Remus’ own reflection looked old, like a set of sheets grown threadbare and patchy with over-use. It was hard to see Moony the Marauder in that face.  
   
“Remus,” Sirius said, and he looked up to find that Sirius was much closer than he’d realised.  
   
Remus could see the trace of stubble on Sirius’ cheeks, the intense blue of his eyes, the textured curve of his nose. He was very close, close enough that Remus could feel his breath.  
   
They had kissed twice, many years ago: first as a dare aged fifteen; and then shortly before James and Lily’s deaths, when Sirius was behaving with a whirling unpredictability that made it possible to think of him as a traitor.  
   
Sirius had been angry and drunk – neither of which was unusual – and had kissed Remus suddenly with a furious, almost brutal, passion. His hands were painfully tight on Remus arms for a moment, then Remus had shoved him and Sirius stumbled, almost fell, his eyes wild and dark.  
   
“Get off me,” Remus had snapped, and then Apparated home to drink and grieve alone.  
   
That kiss was never mentioned between them. Remus hadn’t seen Sirius for a week and the fading bruises on his arms were the only sign it had occurred.  
   
Sirius didn’t touch him again for fourteen years.  
   
This moment, sitting on the serene Venetian waterfront, was nothing like that. It was soft and fragile and almost painfully sincere.  
   
Sirius’ face was very close; Remus barely had to move before their lips met with a chaste ghostly pressure. Then Sirius kissed him again with dry tentative lips, as if affecting an introduction or establishing a precedent.  
   
Remus slid his tongue along Sirius’ lower lip and Sirius’ mouth opened beneath him, their tongues meeting hot and slick. Desire coiled in Remus’ abdomen and he pulled Sirius closer. He heard him growl and felt a hand hot against the nape of his neck.  
   
“This isn’t a zipless fuck,” Remus thought urgently, “this is _Sirius_.”  
   
Remus pulled away gently and took a deep breath.  
   
Sirius’ pupils were wide with desire but his were eyes smiling, the skin beside them crinkled. It was surprisingly sexy, for wrinkles.  
   
“What?” Sirius asked nervously, “are my celebrated skills a bit rusty?”  
   
“I’m enjoying you,” Remus said, smiling back.  
   
“You can never get too much of a good thing,” Sirius said, sounding relieved, and kissed him again.  
   
It was a pretty good kiss and Remus was reluctant to end it. However, lying flat on one’s back in a street, Sirius kneeling over him, was probably breaching the boundaries of public decency.  
   
“This could be considered quite romantic,” Remus observed breathlessly, once Sirius released him.  
   
“My life has been all gloom and gothic for years,” Sirius declared. “I’m overdue for romance. Right now, I plan to whisper sweet nothings in a big, soft bed.”  
   
Remus raised an eyebrow.  
   
“Don’t worry, Moony,” Sirius said, dropping his voice to a deep, exaggeratedly sexy tone. “Your virtue is safe with me.”  
   
“My virtue has been absent since the seventies,” Remus said dryly, “as you know full well.”  
   
“All the better,” Sirius said and grabbed his hand. Remus couldn’t decide whether or not it was romantic that Sirius had held his hand in order to Apparate them both into bed.  
   
Afterwards, as they lay in the candlelight, Sirius asked “So, there were others, then? While I was in Azkaban?”  
   
“Yes,” Remus said shortly and paused to give Sirius a considering look. “Others? Sirius, we didn’t-”  
   
“I wanted to,” Sirius replied, looking away, “I didn’t want to do anything stupid ‘cause maybe I’d lose you. James said that if it was meant to happen then it would and not to rush things, so I didn’t. And then-” he paused, “then we thought you’d betrayed us and I didn’t know what to do.”  
   
“You kissed me,” Remus said neutrally.  
   
Sirius looked up, pain written all over his face. “By then I’d lost you already.”  
   
“I presumed you were just drunk,” Remus said, slowly, “you were always with girls.”  
   
“Yeah, I had to be drunk for it to work with girls. Eventually I realised that meant something, but I didn’t know how to fix things between us.”  
   
Remus remembered those months: the sickly sense that things were far too broken to be mended. The hostile, pressing silence that prevented either of them from raising their suspicions or laying them to rest.  
   
“I wanted you,” Sirius said simply, “but you never seemed to notice and then it was too late.”  
   
“I didn’t think about it,” Remus said, and as Sirius recoiled he reached out to catch his wrist. “No- I mean…I wouldn’t let myself think about it. With you.”  
   
They looked at each other and Remus wondered why he had never noticed the beauty of Sirius eyes, complex patterns and swirls within the blue. He could get lost in those eyes.  
   
“With the benefit of hindsight,” Sirius announced, “I should’ve jumped you. James was full of shit.”  
   
“We’re here now,” Remus replied, and Sirius pressed him back against the pillows, claiming him lips in an enthusiastic kiss.  
   
They spent the days researching and the nights – slow, sensual nights – in each others’ arms. Sirius was entertained by the scandalous histories of long-dead Venetian wizards in the dusty tomes of the library, learning far more about politics than magic.  
   
“And then she walked in on him screwing the Doge’s son, so he jumped right out of the window into the canal and escaped on a gondola!” Sirius recounted gleefully, “If we ever finish this war I’ll come back and turn it into a novel. It’ll be brilliant. I quite fancy trading infamy for fame in my old age.”  
   
“You’re not old,” said Remus, because it was obligatory. They weren’t even forty, yet.  
   
The lack of maturity was brought home to Remus quite forcefully, since it took a full body bind to prevent a tipsy Sirius from dramatically re-enacting the escape by window and stolen gondola.  
   
Remus spent three days in a tiny, hidden room inside the Jewish ghetto, where every spell was protective, hundreds of years of wards in Italian, Hebrew, Spanish, and languages he couldn’t identify. He worked with a furious sadness until long after dark, when the curator gently reminded him to leave. On those nights, Sirius fed him aperitifs and tiramisu, touched him softly over and over until the tenderness lifted Remus from his grief.  
   
On their final day they stopped at a shop selling traditional, handmade Carnival masks in bright-coloured papier-mache; the kitsch but inevitable souvenirs of Venice.  
   
“What d’you reckon?” Sirius asked, holding up a lion.  
   
It wasn’t much of a lion; a mere cartoon in comparison to the Gryffindor banners. Remus grimaced.  
   
“Something more traditional?” Sirius suggested, discarding the lion mask and gesturing at a Harlequin.  
   
“Doesn’t suit you.”  
   
Sirius paused, looking around at the hundreds of different designs. “Have a look at this,” he said slowly.  
   
Remus turned, and found Sirius regarding an elaborate matched pair of masks – the sun and moon.  
   
The sun was painted in bright blue and gold, metallic paint glittering off the curled points that resembled a many-sided star; it’s pair was an asymmetric quarter moon shape in silver and pink. They were beautiful, elegant and very distinctive.  
   
Remus glanced at the price-tag, which was enough to make one wince.  
   
“They’re too expensive, Sirius,” he said.  
   
“Not if they bill it to Gringotts,” Sirius replied easily, and gave the shop assistant his account details. Clearly the goblins were resisting the Ministry’s efforts to impound the Black fortunes, because the transaction occurred without a hitch.  
   
Apparently Venetian masks were very fragile, because the saleswitch wrapped the sun and moon in tissue-paper, placed them into boxes and cast several protective charms. Finally, she placed the boxes into a bag, which shrunk to the size of a paperweight when it touched Sirius’ palm.  
   
Remus thought of those paired masks as the bike flew onwards under the swelling moon and purple evening light. Then Sirius removed one hand from the handlebars and placed it casually on Remus’ thigh, making sparks coruscate along his skin despite the intervening layers of fabric.  
   
Thoughts of stars and moons, of analogies and poetic language slipped away as Remus’ mind was flooded with the feel and smell of Sirius.  
   
   
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
   
“On the back of a motor bike   
with your arms outstretched trying to take flight   
leaving everything behind.   
But even at our swiftest speed we couldn't break from the concrete   
in the city where we still reside.”  
_Brothers On A Hotel Bed_  
   
   
Istanbul was wholly unlike Remus’ expectations of the Orient. He was almost overwhelmed by the size and variety: the multitude of soaring mosques, the bustle of ferries, busy movement of crowds, the clamour of merchants and restaurateurs hawking their wares.  
   
Some of the magic in Istanbul was the oldest they’d found, dating back almost to the construction of the Church Hagia Sophia in 537AD. It also had the best records, almost two thousand years of uninterrupted magical scholarship passed from Romans to Byzantines to the Ottoman Empire.  
   
Remus and Sirius joined the crowds of tourists in Hagia Sophia, casting concealment spells so they could pick dutifully through the layers and layers of spells, Arabic layers on Latin and Greek just as the Islamic symbols covered over the Christian sculpture and mosaics. On one wall they found Viking graffiti and Sirius guffawed loudly; thankfully, nobody threw him out.  
   
They spent an entire day at the Topkapi Palace, home of the Emperors, eunuchs, concubines and of the original gilded cage. It was uneasy and haunting for them both to look out over the city from within the Harem’s walls and sculpted metal grills – a luxuriant prison was a prison nonetheless.  
   
The palace grounds and gardens were filled with elegant buildings, lovely mosaics and delicately stained glass, but the Harem’s presence tainted it all.  
   
“Almost makes me appreciate Azkaban,” Sirius said afterward, his voice bitter. “At least they were honest about it, didn’t expect you to be grateful.”  
   
The mosques were almost friendly by contrast, even though they required women to wear headscarves and frowned upon homosexuality.  
   
Sirius loved the older mosques, not their silent courtyards or interiors where prayers rose into the dome, but the parts which were closed to the public. They sneaked into the Minarets, climbed and climbed the winding stairs until they reached the gallery and could look down over the rooftops.  
   
Sirius kissed him on a Minaret of the Blue Mosque, fingers trailing over Remus’ skin like silk, their lips meeting with the gentle, unstoppable intensity of a rising tide. Remus couldn’t describe the way those kisses felt: familiarity and brilliance, like fireworks and returning home all at once.  
   
It was almost possible to believe that could have this – have each other – until an owl arrived through the hotel window.  
   
Sirius frowned as he read the letter and then rose, pacing the room like a caged animal. “I need to go back,” he said.  
   
“Why?” Remus asked, which was the wrong question because they obviously couldn’t stay forever; the presence of an oasis implied a return to the desert. “Why now?” he amended.  
   
“Something’s up and I want to be closer to Harry,” Sirius said tersely. “It’s important.”  
   
“Where will you go?”  
   
Sirius shrugged. “There’s a cave near Hogwarts. It won’t be very comfortable, but it’s secret.”  
   
“Come home with me,” Remus said, more urgently than he’d intended and Sirius turned, his eyes enquiring.  
   
“It’s cold,” said Remus, searching for a good, objective reason. “It’ll be Christmas soon. I want you to be safe.” He didn’t say, _I don’t want to let go_, but he saw that Sirius understood.  
   
There was a long pause as Sirius studied his face.  
   
“I’ll come,” Sirius said eventually.  
   
They took their time on that last day, savouring the city, their freedom and their anonymity amongst these foreign Muggles. Remus tried not to think about his fears and responsibilities at home instead focusing on the present, their final ferry-ride across the Bosporus.  
   
The sky was a clear, brilliant blue sky and the boat rocked in the waves, water sloshing against its keel. The local men stood at the edge of the deck, smoking nasty-smelling cigars and drinking strong Turkish coffee from the concession stand.  
   
Then someone started throwing food to the flock of kittiwakes which shrieked beside the boat, diving and wheeling to catch scraps. Remus bought a packet of biscuits and joined the handful of men throwing crumbs as Sirius leant on the railing beside him.  
   
“I love you,” Sirius said, without taking his eyes from the birds or the green-grey water. Remus paused mid-throw.  
   
“Pardon?”  
   
“You heard,” Sirius said, turning.  
   
It was the moment Remus had been hoping for and the moment he’d been fearing. The feeling was almost like vertigo: the contradiction between his giddy desire to take flight and absolute terror of falling.  
   
They looked into each other’s eyes and as the boat lurched Sirius steadied Remus’ arm, preventing him from stumbling.  
   
“I was looking for some more original phrasing,” Sirius continued lightly, only his eyes betraying the seriousness of his words, “but it turns out there isn’t really another way to say it.”  
   
“I know,” Remus said, pushing the words past a block in his throat. “I do. Too.”  
   
Sirius smiled and took Remus’ hand, entwining their fingers on the rail of the boat.  
   
“Let’s hang on to this,” Sirius said, and they didn’t lose grip of each other’s hands all afternoon, not in the bustling crowds of the Spice Market where Remus bought apple tea and vanilla pods, nor when Sirius haggled futilely over a dodgy magic carpet.  
   
Their last few hours in Istanbul seemed to evaporate and the hands raced around Remus’ watch until there was nothing for it but to pack up the bags and leave. Sirius swung his leg over the seat, started the bike and waited for Remus to shuffle on behind him. Remus wrapped an arm around Sirius’ broad chest.  
   
“All right?”  
   
“Yes,” Remus said, thinking “No, I don’t want to leave,” but of course Sirius couldn’t hear his thoughts, and the next moment the motorbike roared up into the cloudless sky.  
   
Even Sirius must have felt regret because he circled Sultanhamet just once before they left, looking down onto the Topkapi Palace, the stunning mosques and streets full of oblivious people.  
   
“We’ll be all right,” Sirius said, responding to the fear that Remus hadn’t verbalized. Then the motorbike banked sharply as Sirius steered them North.  
   
Remus didn’t pay much attention to the flight: it was dark and the West coast of Europe was a sea of tiny lights passing beneath them. This journey marked the start of something new and terrifying; he must have been mad to imagine that a holiday together would Sort Things Out.  
   
“Hey, Moony,” Sirius shouted over the roar of the engine and the wind, “Look!”  
   
Remus opened his eyes.  
   
Sirius’ arms were raised out straight beside him, as if balancing on a tightrope. He was not steering the bike.  
   
“We’re still flying!” Sirius exclaimed, almost whooping with excitement.  
   
“We’re going to be killed,” Remus shouted into his ear, arms tightening around Sirius’ waist.  
   
“Try it!” Sirius cried.  
   
Remus shook his head, and Sirius reached down to clasp Remus’ hands, wrapping the gloved fingers with his own. Then Sirius lifted his arms, pulling Remus’ hands with him until both their arms were outstretched like wings.  
   
Remus tensed instinctively, clamping his legs around the bike and gripping Sirius’ fingers until it almost hurt.  
   
The bike didn’t waver, holding true to the course that led them towards home and Harry.  
   
Sirius laughed. “Trust me, we’re not going to fall,” he yelled.  
   
Giddily, insanely, as if love could buoy them up or cushion them from harm, Remus found that he believed it.  
   
   
   
Further Notes:  
   
\- All the Muggle locations used in this fic are real places, including the tunnel in Tallinn. Further information about Tallinn, Venice and Istanbul can be found via wikipedia.  
\- Sirius quotes from the first line of L P Hartley’s novel “The Go-Between”.  
 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Of Comets and Counter-Examples by Woldy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/309670) by [fire_juggler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fire_juggler/pseuds/fire_juggler)




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